Cigarette Burns
by Alacruxe
Summary: SO2 My collection of Star Ocean drabbles centered around Bowman and Ernest. Rating may change. Slash.
1. 0 cigarette burns

**Cigarette Burns**

So, I'm finally getting off my ass and writing these out. I had planned to write "Cigarette Burns" much earlier in the year, but stuff happened and I got lazy. I also fell off the Star Ocean hype; in fact, at the time of writing, I'm still not fully committed to the fandom. Regardless, here I am.

There really is no justification for this pairing, nor is there a loyal fanbase. Dias, Claude, and Ashton tend to hog the spotlight for slash, and even _they_ are overshadowed dramatically by Fayt and crew. Naturally, I am angered by the lack of second-game love. Hopefully, when the PSP port hits North American shelves, it'll pick up again.

I came across this pairing by mistake. My friend Anise and I were discussing possibilities as I browsed Japanese fanart sites, and I mentioned that both Bowman and Ernest were smokers; well, in most of their incarnations, anyway. Thus, "Came For" was spawned. To be honest, I'm ashamed to go back and read it now that I've educated myself much more thoroughly on either character's personality. Despite my shame, however, I'm very glad to have got some people thinking, "What if?"

Well, to all those who asked themselves such a question...here is your answer.

Enjoy.

* * *

**0. **cigarette burns

* * *

"It's tough," Ernest mumbles around a cigarette.

Bowman turns toward him, perplexed. He himself hasn't smoked in about a month, and the withdrawal symptoms have diminished. Unfortunately, the temptations have not. Ernest is not helping. Bowman makes it obvious.

"Sure is," he growls. "Spit the damn thing out."

Ernest just chuckles and leans farther onto the table, balancing his cheek on a half-closed fist. "I believe you misunderstood me, good doctor."

"Well," Bowman retorts under his breath, "you'd make a lot more sense without _that _in your mouth."

Either Ernest does not hear the remark, or he simply ignores it. "What I meant," he continues, smiling in the most condescending way he can, "is that it's tough for _me_. You ought to know just by looking how much disdain Opera has for this habit of mine."

Rather than being offended by the blow to his ego, Bowman rolls with the punch. He smiles and makes a dismissive gesture. "You should have seen Nineh."

"You'd do anything for her."

Ernest's statement is very serious, and he emphasizes it by giving Bowman a hard stare. All three of his eyes show honesty, perhaps an undertone of envy. Or maybe Bowman is just being overly analytical. Allowing himself a period of thought before responding, Bowman nods slowly. "I like to think so."

"You and I," Ernest says as he pulls the cigarette from his mouth, "are two _very different men_." He grinds the butt into the hard wood of the table, leaving a stark black stain. Without taking his gaze off Bowman, Ernest rises from his chair and steps aside.

"See you tomorrow, Ernest."

Ernest nods, a thin smile on his lips. Finally, his gaze leaves Bowman's, and he strides out of the bar, hands deep in the pockets of his coat.

Bowman shakes his head and reaches into his own pocket, withdrawing a pack of smokes and a matchbox, all the while wishing he were as different from Ernest as he once believed.


	2. I battlefield

**I. **battlefield

* * *

It was a difficult fight. Rena's jaw was tight from shouting invocation after invocation, Celine's fingers were singed at the tips from throwing frantic spells, Bowman's fists were bruised...

Opera seemed the only one unscathed. She tended to her weapon, the strange metal contraption that was taller than her, and yet somehow light enough to be toted around everywhere they went. She polished the chassis, made a few repairs to the inner workings (though she was especially careful when handling the "phaser box"), and, finally satisfied, set the thing down and went to sit by the rest of them.

Rena looked her over. "Wow," she breathed. "Out of all of us, you're the only one without a single bruise." She giggled, though her voice sounded strained, her throat dry. "You'll never cease to amaze me, Opera."

Bowman grunted as he bandaged a bleeding wrist, dabbing a bit of herb poultice on the wound to ease any swelling. Being very much a realist, Bowman had noticed Opera's panicked face and shaky hands early on in the fight. Opera was no more a fighter than anyone else in their four-person troupe, and her obvious hangover was proof enough.

"Yes, well," she replied in a mockup of modesty, "I have only Ernest to thank for that. He drags me all over the uni...the _world_ for his work, so naturally, I've built up quite a bit of strength!"

For all the talking she did when it came to this "Ernest" character, she didn't have a single piece of evidence to prove he even existed.

Bowman had a feeling he wouldn't much like him, anyway.

* * *

(author's note: This one is based on the boss battle at the Hoffmann Ruins, which, despite my hideously-underleveled characters, I somehow won. Yes, I actually _use_ Bowman.)


	3. II ring

**II. **ring

* * *

They're never much for pillowtalk. Ernest especially isn't. Rather, he likes to repeatedly remind Bowman that he is an adulterer and a fool.

And then he throws his clothes back on, runs his fingers through his hair, and leaves the room whistling.

Bowman never once questions the fact that what he's doing is wrong. No, he often regrets even leaving the pharmacy. He regrets many things. He feels sorry for Opera, he feels sorry for Nineh. He feels sorry for the ring on his finger, which he will never be able to look at the same way again.

He often wonders how he'll tell his wife about this. He wonders if he even will. And of course, he wonders if she will ever forgive him.

More often than anything, he wonders if he can ever forgive himself.


	4. III day

**III. **day

"Check."

Filtered sunlight brightens Ernest's face, puts an extra shine to his hair. Bowman studies the man facing him in a clinical fashion, gazing at dry lips slightly stretched into a faint grin, those smile-lined eyes beckoning Bowman to make his move, to assert his domination...

On the end of the table opposite Ernest, out of range of the inn-room window's take on sunshine, Bowman is the picture of tension, eyebrows drawn tightly, the corners of his lips turned downward in a shadowed frown. And Ernest just smiles smugly, looks downward at Bowman as the pharmacist runs through options in his head, hindered by the twitching nervousness his system has granted him.

"We don't have all day, you know," Ernest states, that damnable smile still gracing his face. "If I were you, I'd make my move quickly. You never know when someone might walk in on us and tell us it's time to get going..."

Bowman stills his hand, which had presently drifted to the center of the table and consequently had begun to shake. Beneath his fingertips, a carved obsidian "bishop" wobbles on its feet.

Ernest continues, "Imagine how horrified they would be. To find the two of us," he pauses to make a mock-emphatic gesture with his wrist, "_playing_ when we ought to be hard at work, preparing ourselves for the end of days."

Bowman's expression intensifies, his eyebrows furrowing into a glare and his lips parting into a snarl.

"Make your move, Bowman." Ernest outstretches his arms to either side of his torso: symbolically inviting.

And finally, Bowman speaks, a quiet "go to hell" before he roughly shoves the chessboard and pieces off the table and replaces them with himself, leaning in with little warning and kissing Ernest in the harshest manner he can imagine, lacing intimacy with perfectly-choreographed violence, biting and pushing and sucking and generally conducting his movements in a way that forces Ernest to submit.

When the two finally break apart, gasping for air and quivering with lust, Bowman has both hands on Ernest's collar, a knee between his legs, pinning him to his chair. Though his hands are free, Ernest makes no move to push Bowman off; and with an almost charming sneer, Bowman locks his teeth in the lobe of Ernest's ear, and whispers a single word to mark his triumph: "Check_mate_."


	5. IV rest

**IV.** rest

* * *

"Say, Bowman."

"Mm," Bowman grunts as he rolls over on his pillow to face Ernest's bed. It's dark, and Bowman can't see Ernest under his countless sheets, but at least he'll be able to hear him this way.

"Do you believe in fate?" Ernest laces a curious question with bits of amusement. Bowman makes a note in his mind that Ernest _always_ seems to be somehow amused with things, even when the situation is nothing but grim.

Bowman, on the contrary, is unamused with the question, and he glares into the darkness before asserting, "I believe in a certain someone meeting a very unpleasant one if he doesn't shut his mouth. Go to sleep, Raviede."

Calmly, Ernest replies, "Not yet. Answer the question, please."

Bowman is frustrated, though he won't let it get to him. Not yet; he'll save it for battle where he can imagine he's punching Ernest's too-pretty face in, instead of that of a hideous monster. For a moment, Bowman ponders which of the two would be more satisfying. "Ernest," he answers, "I believe in a lot of things. Surprisingly enough, the backwater Bowman believes in true love, and in possibilities, and in trusting _you_. Hell, I believe in almost all of Claude's crazy stories about...well, everything he talks about."

"And fate?" Ernest prompts.

"...But I don't believe in fate and I'll try my absolute damnedest to dispel any notions of yours that we were fated to meet, Raviede."

Bowman can hear Ernest laughing softly, though it's somewhat muffled through the pillow he now has pressed against his ear. He doesn't particularly care about Ernest at the moment. Just sleep.

He _does_ care when he can feel the mattress dipping a little behind him and a pair of arms looping loosely around his neck and warm, dry lips pressing against his shoulder. He _does_ care, he's just too tired to push Ernest off.

Bowman continues to tell himself this until he begins to fall asleep, lulled by the pleasant warmth of another body against his back. Ernest just smiles and presses closer, thanking the gods for possibilities.


End file.
